


Deprived

by BlunderGod (PompousPickle)



Series: The Fire Does Not Rule You [5]
Category: Mortal Kombat (Video Games), Mortal Kombat - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Takeda and his abandonment issues, Watching Someone Sleep, very slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 02:42:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4462391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PompousPickle/pseuds/BlunderGod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Training his son wasn't always easy. Especially in the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deprived

**Author's Note:**

> This follows the fic that comes before this in the series, where Kenshi moves into the Shirai-Ryu compound for a while, while Takeda adjusts to him being around.

For a man that insisted on wandering the world, Kenshi had taken to his residence in the compound quickly. He stayed in an old and abandoned room in the dojo, with rotting wood and a boarded window. Kenshi didn’t mind, so long as he had a place to sleep at night. He had certainly stayed in worse accommodations.  

Most of the recruits didn’t bother him, and many did not like him much. After all, he was the man who didn’t want Takeda. He was the father who abandoned his son, a clan _leader_. Takeda’s contempt wasn’t a secret. Kenshi didn’t expect any other treatment. Still, it was better than taking his son away from the clan. Hanzo was right; it was best to train him here for now.

Still, Hanzo couldn’t help but notice how quickly Kenshi had taken to it all, despite everything. He woke up early and did his katas with everyone else. His style differed, but he moved in time with the rest of the clan, feeling the rhythm of the routine even if the signals were different. He ate with everyone else, and spoke jovially with the ones who gave him the time of day.

The younger children took to him well enough. Or, at the very least, they took to Sento. They loved watching his powers, fascinated with the glowing sword and the magical man who controlled it. Hanzo would often stand in the background as Kenshi showed off for them, juggling various items with his mind. Hanzo would only snort, finding it typical that Kenshi would take the opportunity to bolster himself. In truth though, he found it rather charming.

But then at night, after daily routines and cleaning duties, Kenshi and Takeda met in the dojo. Hanzo told himself he’d stay away, for the sake of the father and his son. He owed them both their privacy, knowing that he’d want the same. But he couldn’t help but watch and listen sometimes.

There were nights were Takeda’s voice would fill the halls, heated in every word. There were nights where Kenshi didn’t sleep, walking to the communal kitchen at obscene hours to make tea, and then leave without a word.  There were also times when the training would go better; where Kenshi and Takeda would share stories under the stars, attempting to levitate rocks. Or they would practice swordsmanship in the night, streams of moonlight shining on the matted floors. Those were the nights were things felt domestic, comfortable. Hanzo didn’t want to dwell on them, knowing how easily these things often slipped away. But he found himself cherishing it nonetheless.

This was not one of those nights.

“Then I’m _useless_ to you, is what you’re saying?! That’s what I am to you, Dad? Some…tool for your own vengeance? Do you _know_ what I’ve been through?”

Hanzo could hear the elevated voices from his room. He could just make out Kenshi’s desperate attempt to calm his son down, assuring him that he wants to be a part of his life. He could nearly feel the snap, the crack of a whip and a slam against a wall. Hanzo clenched his fists, rocked to his knees, and got ready to move towards the training room.

But then after, he could hear very little. A murmur between the two men. Footsteps down the hall, and the sliding of a single door as it slammed shut. Finally, he could hear heavy boots growing close to his own room, shuffling and lingering outside. He closed his eyes, bracing to hear a knock.

When none came, Hanzo grunted loudly. “You may have been training a telepath, but I still cannot read minds. Either enter or leave, Kenshi.”

Kenshi chuckled as he slid the door open. “Yet you still knew it was me. You are more perceptive than you lead people to believe.”

“Takeda would not have hesitated, and the rest of the clan is asleep. You should take after them,” Hanzo said shortly. Still, he scooted over to allow Kenshi to sit next to him at the small table.

“Is that so?” Kenshi let his hands roam over the table as he sat down, feeling out the area. “And what is the great Hanzo Hasashi doing awake at such an hour then?”

Hanzo swatted Kenshi’s hand away impatiently. He was pouring over paperwork at that moment. He did not often take to doing work in his own room, but he had hoped it would help him get some sleep of his own. However, after looking over Kenshi’s tired features and bruised face, he realized that his own well-being was the last thing he cared about.

“Sorting out the month’s budget,” he replied bluntly, not finding any reason to lie. The upkeep of the clan was not cheap, and there was only so much work that the clan could manage on their own without needing to strike up deals with local villages.

Kenshi nodded, taking a long breath and stretching out. Hanzo felt a pang of nostalgia overtake him. The swordsman had done this often, before the Kamidogu incident; he would come into Hanzo’s life, and stretch out over the room as though he owned everything in it. He very nearly already did. If Kenshi had wanted, he could take everything in the room and call it his own, Hanzo included.

Rebuilding the clan again had been difficult, to say the least. Securing the safety of the Kamidogu, even more so. There had been much to think about in that time. And Kenshi had been the least of them. But now, with the man exhausted and leaning back on his floor, Hanzo could think of very little else.

“He gets the stubbornness from you,” Kenshi finally says with a low sigh. He was smiling, but it was a sad smile. Tired and full of conflicting emotions. Hanzo could barely stand to see it. 

“Takeda is a fighter,” the Grandmaster clarified. “He has been for a long time. Our recent…trials have only increased that drive. He will mature past this.” He paused for a moment, trying to think of the right thing to say, but the words never came easy. “Do you want me to talk to him?”

“Would you, even if I wanted you to?”

Hanzo snorted, growing tired of Kenshi’s joking manner and constant deflection. He did not want to talk to Takeda, but he would do so, as long as it was on Takeda’s terms. As of right now, however, he preferred the two sort it out on their own.  

The two sat in silence for a few long moments. Hanzo returned to his paperwork, only glancing at Kenshi on occasion. The man was dressed casually, foregoing his usual armor and coat for a simple shirt and a pair of loose-fitting blacked pants. His hair was mussed, falling from its usual meticulous placement, and his face was bruised from the impact of the whips. The swordsman leaned back on his elbows; his head tossed back and tilted towards Hanzo, as though he was simply enjoying listening to Hanzo write and flip through papers.

“Tell me about the budget,” Kenshi finally said. His voice sounded low, drawn out. Hanzo glanced the man over one more time, noticing that he was lower to the ground now, laying back. Hanzo felt a smile tug at his mouth, despite himself.

It was a small thing, he knew. But it was good to see his friend relaxed again. And if the idea of Kenshi falling asleep in his room made the Grandmaster’s heart beat a little faster, no one had to know. He steeled his resolve in an instant and looked down at the charts.

He started to list out their current assets, starting with the renewable resources. He ran through the crops they were growing west of the compound, in a field of fertile soil they had found. By the time he had gotten through the farming tools, Kenshi was completely laying on the ground. When Hanzo had finished the budget lists for seeds and fertilizers, Kenshi had fallen still, breathing now steady and his jaw twitching a little in his sleep.

Hanzo let his eyes linger on the man for a few long seconds. He knew it was inappropriate, but he let himself indulge, letting himself take in the sight. His friend was exhausted, from sleepless nights and stressful days, fighting his son in one way or another at every turn.  There was little more than that. But Kenshi had still come to him, and chosen to relax to the point of purest vulnerability. That simple fact alone left Hanzo’s mind reeling.

He shook his head, steadying his breathing and returning back to the papers. And if his right hand reached down to card through Kenshi’s hair while he slept? Well, no one had to know.


End file.
